


I'll Be Okay

by AngelsMalady



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Modern Era, Multi, idk about tags man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:43:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelsMalady/pseuds/AngelsMalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Bossuet is comatose doesn't mean he's gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Okay

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote a version of this as a piece for my English course, then decided "HEY! I could make it into this!" And thus, the fic was born. This is my first time posting work in absolutely years, so please bare with me.

 

_“I'm so sorry, but there’s been… little improvement. None, in fact.”_

The words are muffled; paper thin walls not quite enough to block their sting. The “serious” discussions are always held in the corridor where they think I cannot hear. It’s a futile attempt at protecting me from the reality of my situation, but I know full well where I am. It’s not some vast riddle only a genius can solve. My surroundings practically scream “HOSPITAL”: everything from the overpowering smell of fake-lemon disinfectant, to the needles and tubes tucked under my skin (no doubt connected to that infernal beeping machine right beside my head) – that, and the frequent announcements declaring visiting hours to be over. They’re a bit of a give-away.

_“There’s got to be something else we can do.”_

Plus, I was crushed by a truck. Where else would I be?

_“We just need to keep trying.”_

Trying to remember life before the accident is like trying to catch a cloud. Just as I think I've caught a handful, it slips between my fingers, disappearing back into the dark corners of my mind. Every face has blended into one: a disfigured blob of indistinguishable features. Lifelong friends have faded. Family members are hazy at the edges. Teachers, neighbours, lovers… all disappearing. My mind is burning up and everything is turning to smoke.

_“Joly, you know as well as I do. We’re out of options.”_

The accident is the only thing still clear as day. The one thing I want to forget and I've been branded with it.

_“What, so you’re just giving up?!”_

Wednesday night was movie night: always had been, always will be. Every single week without fail, Musichetta, Joly, and I would curl up together on the sofa with some terrible B-movie.   
We started the tradition back when we first met, spending the time laughing and drinking far too much. As the months went on, and we got closer, it shifted. It turned into a way of staying close. The drinking stopped, and the touches started. Small and barely there, minuscule yet all important simultaneously. It took almost two years for us to realise what we all wanted. We didn't hold back after that.  
Every Wednesday, without fail, I ended up between my partners: Joly tucked into my side with his head on my shoulder, Musichetta laying sideways on my other, legs sprawled across us both. It never mattered how bad the movie was, or how cold the apartment got when I forgot to top up the meter, or how there was never enough space for our trio on the couch. We had each other, and we were content. The three of us were all any of us needed. We were our own haven.

_“His internal organs have completely failed. The machines are the only thing keeping Boss alive.”_

I can remember it was my turn to make the snack run. I was walking home, bags hanging heavy in my hands, straps cutting into my fingers, almost full to bursting and banging against my side with every step I took. I didn't mind though. I'm not exactly new to bruises.

_“There’s got to be SOMETHING!”_

It started as nothing more than a shower: light, delicate raindrops, bouncing gently off the pavement, tapping musically against the roofs of passing cars. If you weren't paying attention, you might never have noticed it falling.

_“Please, Combeferre.”_

Within minutes the delicate drops were replaced with hulking blobs. The sea of heads turned to a tidal wave of multi-coloured umbrellas, and small puddles transformed into lakes as I watched.

_“I really am sorry.”_

I battled against it, fought off the icy knives desperate to creep under my jacket. Head down, hood up, one foot in front of the other, faster, faster, faster, back into Joly’s arms, back to Musichetta’s kisses, back to where I belong…

_“Chetta…”_

I hadn't even realised I had walked onto the road.

_“… No. Don’t you dare.”_

After that, it gets hazy again. A few seconds of screaming horns. People in the distance shouting. Questions and apologies and panic. Sirens surrounding me, flashing blue lights overpowering every other sight. My leg curled around in almost a perfect circle around the bumper of the truck. The rain still hammering down, soaking me to the bone, washing everything clean. Pain.

And then I woke up here.

_“He’s right. I hate it, but he’s right.”_

I still panic whenever the rain starts. The pitter-patter on my window is always accompanied by the beeping machine speeding up ever so slightly.

_“Shut. Up.”_

I’m well looked after though. Combeferre and Joly are the best doctors I know, and the rest of Les Amis have been just as amazing. Whenever the rain starts, Courfeyrac sits by my bed and grips my hand. Bahorel tucks me in extra tight on cold nights. Every day someone will read to me. Jehan reads poetry of his own composition, while Enjolras prefers to read aloud notes and minutes from meetings that I have missed. Graintaire chastises him constantly over this, of course, adamant that there are things of greater interest I could be hearing. But I do not mind. Not really.

_“Chetta, baby, try to stay calm. It’s probably fo-“_

I used to detest those things. We wasted so much paper, printing minutes for a meeting we were all at anyway. They were handed out and pushed to the bottom of a bag, thrown in the bin as soon as Enjolras was out of sight. Only he and Combeferre ever kept their copies safe. Now I realise how helpful those minutes are. Now, I’m thankful for them.

_“You can’t seriously be thinking about this.”_

It’s surprising how many small things I used to take for granted. Like... there used to be a nest outside our window. Every morning at six, the birds inside would sing. All year round, they sang their little tune. I don’t know how many times I tried to knock that nest over, just to get a longer sleep in the mornings. Joly loved those birds. Musichetta always slept too soundly to ever hear them. I hated them with a passion.

I’d give anything to hear those birds sing again.

_“He’s our fucking boyfriend, Joly! Pulling the plug isn’t an option. No.”_

I miss being able to eat for myself: savouring the tastes and the textures… now I’m just fed through a tube. I miss the feeling of fresh air on my skin, the panic of rushing two day late homework, the calm of laying in bed, completely surrounded by my loves, unable to tell which touch belongs to who… I miss living. I even miss the walls. What I wouldn’t give just to be able to open my eyes and look at the walls.

_“What kind of life is this for him?”_

Musichetta is getting louder in the corridor, angrier as the conversation with Joly goes on. I can’t tell if Combeferre has left or if he is simply remaining silent. Knowing him, he’ll have departed. This isn’t a conversation he’ll feel comfortable taking part in.

_“It’s a life. Isn’t that all that matters?”_

It’s not Joly’s fault though. He’s having to balance his personal feelings and his medical opinion. It can’t be easy on him. It can’t be easy on either of them. Trust me to make things complicated.

_“You know it matters, Chetta.”_

Oh. There’s Combeferre.

_“I just… it’s our Boss.”_

They won’t argue for much longer. Joly is too soft for arguing, especially when pitted against Musichetta’s fire.  They’re a perfect balance. It’s one of the reasons why we work so well together; why they work so well together. Even if I don’t wake back up, they’ll be okay.

_“You think I don’t know that?"_

I think they’ll wait for me though.

_“It’s the kindest thing to do, baby.”_

I hope they wait for me.

  
  


 

 

_“… Yeah. Yeah, it is.”_

But then, when have I ever been that lucky.

 


End file.
